


Sabine's Swimsuit

by phalangae



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Belly Kink, F/M, POV Second Person, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23586019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phalangae/pseuds/phalangae
Summary: Sabine Wren and Anonymous—AKA, you, the reader—enjoy something of a... game? Even a... date, maybe?
Relationships: Sabine Wren/Reader
Kudos: 1





	Sabine's Swimsuit

From where you are, leaning against the wall, you can’t help but stare into the console above you. It's had you and your attention sucked in for far longer than you're willing to admit, and yet, here you are.

Built into the wall, above the large and empty comms desk, this is something that was inserted after—new, not original to this ship, inserted by this crew of Rebels, likely after they took charge of this ship, purchased it and made it their own. In the middle of the large, hooded scope, dancing across the glass-plate surface and just beneath the printed, fine grid-marks that made it look like a radar graph, a squiggly line of glowing energy keeps tracing and looping. If it were a radar you would half-expect it to bounce between poles, be suspended from one end of the plate to the other, like a true graph, or even turn with the spinning arm beneath, updating with points after wave after wave. You just kept watching it, spinning and spinning, like it's playing snake—except for each time it doubled over, about to cross its own “tail”, that end disappeared. It was like it was passing over a line, some invisible barrier that it kept shrinking into—no logic at all to it.

Half of you thought it was alive. It seemed to squiggle around like an electrified ringworm, squirming around like it was in a frying pan. God… how long had you been staring at this thing for?

_Thooooooo ooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmm..._

The power cut out behind it, the cathode tubes humming down and all of the lights in the console around it—the scope and your squiggling line—clicking off. Then, all at once, the lights in the room switched off, leaving you in the darkness.

All except for one, narrow opening of a console, humming to life beneath the Christmas-y arrangement of lights and buttons.

Oh, right, the locking mechanism. Core functions of the ship seemed to do this, sometimes, when they kicked on.

Shwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!

One by one, the lights above in the rafters of the crew quarters flickered on, rattling back to life, knocking off the dust that covered the heavy tubes of the light fixtures and casting them down in a raining, smoky cascade through their orange light.

Your eyes follow across the angular walls of the room, looking to the far end and the narrow door, until—

_Shvooom!_

That almost never gets old. God, what a trip this place is.

The narrow pocket door shot up, disappearing into some unknown recess of the ship, allowing the narrow portraiture—the opening about the side of a body mirror, built into one of the angular walls of the personal quarters—to open.

Inside, the lone pocket light of the narrow closet immediately switched off, probably on purpose. For a split second, you thought you saw—well, you’re not actually sure exactly what you saw. It was as-if your brain was keeping you from imagining it though, you wouldn’t let yourself spoil the moment of actually seeing her.

All you could see, in the imprint of your mind and what you remembered from just spotting her from a distance, was Sabine and her figure, standing there.

The only thing you could see, in the hazy amber light of Sabine’s quarters, peeking out of the closet, was where Sabine had rested her hand on the outside frame of the pocket door, curling a thumb around the welded-metal ledge. The moderately-long bombshell of stormtrooper-armor white nail with a flush of hot orange paint fading down the tip tapped anxiously on the outside of the door.

Behind the arm that led out, Sabine’s silhouette was standing, waiting.

“Alright… Are you ready, kid?”

She actually sounded… nervous. You hadn’t coerced her into doing this at all, you weren’t that intimidating to begin with. She had actually even volunteered this crazy, crackpot idea, and all you had done was just added a couple of the relevant details to make this a little more… personal.

You egg her on.

The top armor plates of a boot clanked together as she stepped through. Another step over the narrow ledge that the pocket door normally resided in, she brings herself into full view.

Your jaw drops.

She’s changed into that swimsuit she had shown you. Two-piece. Some kind of black, mildly-reflective nylon material—looks almost flame-retardant. Like nothing you’ve ever seen.

You… maybe thought Sabine had picked one that rides a little high, at least for the bra part, or maybe the panty—err, whatever the bottom part in a swimsuit is normally called—had the elastic part sitting a little low on her hips. That’s not possible though, you realize, as you also realize that Sabine’s middle—her torso, the stretch from her upper body where her breasts are and then all the way down to her hips—is slightly longer than you might expect. Her edges of her ribs are fine and thin, like little bird ribs, barely revealing the true bulky frame of her Mandalorian body, and they only peek a little down beneath the elastic—the lowest ones reaching down in wide, graceful arcs like wings or, or even some kind of webbing between the sections of absolute muscle she has.

Speaking of muscle…

As Sabine, sagging her hips to the side, rolling the lower part of the swimsuit out so it catches the light a little more, you can see, the dark, embossed emblem of the Rebellion… wait, was this standard issue? No, she had somehow modified the skin of it, either staining or removing sections of it into some beautiful, artistic, wide-winged bird…

As she shifts, she moves the immense sections of chest muscle around in her belly. Soft and smooth, impossible to miss, lacking any of the fine details her ribs had when it was just one, smooth, continuous expanse of flesh.

From the invisible middle of her ribcage, where any discernible line or shadow on her figure disappeared into an expanse of caramel-toned skin, and the heavy, almond-shape division took place sweeping through to her hips, defining her navel and the droll little spot in the middle where her belly button was. It was a thin, rigid fold of skin in the shape of a C, disappearing at the edges where the amber lights in the quarters were at their absolute maximum and made the middle of her belly glow feverishly, only to dip in at the little bulb tucked away inside.

Sabine sagged forward, swaying her upper body out so that, as her arms reached back and found where the cords that held up the ass part of the swimsuit were slipping out of their knot, she could straighten and pull them up a little higher over the natural handle of her hip bones.

Of course, when your eyes return to the top, she’s staring back at you.

“Done ogling yet…?”

The filter on her Mandalorian helmet—the same, hammered helmet with the color-exploded paint job she had given it—warbles through the breathable vents beneath the long face guards of the surface, amplified and crackling like a stormtrooper. It was one detail that, even after looking her over several times, you had missed yourself. She was looking at you through the circled, oval-shaped, glossy-black T of the visor that cut through the middle, clearly watching you with no way of seeing what her eyes were pointed at—clearly wanting to keep some relative sense of privacy and, maybe, even hide her reactions.

Twirled expertly between her fingers, the cord snaps into a new knot, and she tucks the slack behind where that new knot rides high over her hips.

Cocky Sabine had returned, or at least she had brought it out for a moment. As she straightened up her shoulders, turning the awkward posture she had been posed in outside the door—her apparent attempt at modeling for you—she steps ahead. The door to the closet shuttles down behind her, she’s done dressing herself and making any changes. That helmet is going to stay on.

She brushes past you, on her way to the opposite end of her quarters. She’s just as cocky and bristling with danger with every move as you remember—just as powerful wearing less than underwear, a sagging, jangling pair of combat boots, and her own skin as she when she is normally wearing enough armor to survive an ambush of the ordinary stormtrooper patrol or a high-speed crash into a wall from the jetpack strapped to her back.

Suddenly, the console behind you switches back on. The sound of transistors kicking up in the recesses of the steel box is like thunder, even if it’s nothing more than the thunking sound of an old TV.

Standing where you are, near the wall and the console that had been the object of all your attention and ogling before Sabine had made you forget about all of that, she heads away towards the opposite end of her quarters, heading to disappear around the wall by your side.

Before she finally, completely, officially disappears from around the corner and out of your sight, you catch a glimpse of the rear. Overshadowed by the smooth arch of her back and beneath the long-drawn, shifting shadows of her shoulder blades an an identical cord that crosses between them in a warped, form-fitting “X” along her backside and looping around her neck, her ass is there. Beneath glistening flag of the triangle that stretches from corner to straining corner, looping around the corners of her hips and disappearing through the shifting middle of her legs, you can see the faint line between that keeps surfacing through where you imagine her tailbone ends.

Before you leave, though—and with Sabine around the corner, out of sight—you have to remember what you were staying so close to this desk for anyway.

The small bag you always take with you—whether it’s disembarking the ship for a quick adventure or parting ways for good—is there in a heap against the unused interfaces. It’s largely empty, and when you lift it from the top end it feels like mostly bag. When the bottom lifts off the rusty, hollow tabletop, you suddenly feel the heaviness of what you have in it dropping and rolling around inside.

You take your bag with you, and follow Sabine.

* * *

Above the door—another pocket door, larger and just as reinforced as all the others in the rugged ship—the bronzed mantle of that Mandalorian horned-thing you’ve seen on all their stuff is posted on the wall like an old cow skull; in the haze of amber lights and glare of all the other trinkets she has adorning her walls, the dark sockets of its eyes are incredibly deep, and seem to radiate with their pockets of shadow.

Sabine has done little to decorate this. You can see, in the fine, smooth, layered and beveled lines of where whatever metallic material it had been made of had been smoothed over—somehow, bearing the lines of woodworking and yet still bearing the elasticity and smoothness of if it had been molten—great care and attention was taken to make this as close to a real one as possible. Beneath, between and beyond the lines she’s etched into the skull to create shadow, accentuate certain details—features of bone, necessary cracks and ridges in the skull—you can see only the lasting traces of finer details that had been left behind, shaved away and whittled down by the same tools that had smoothed over the rest of the surface. Whatever Sabine had started had been similar to the way she had done up her helmet, prepping lines for dying and giving it artistic shape. The flowery, speckled details of the eye piece start to make it look like it almost would have been done like a sugar skull, with artistic swaths of patterns at the crown of the skull looking like some kind of head-dressing, some kind of scaled covering above and between the brow-bones of the eyes, only broken by the lightning-shaped crack in the corner.

For temporary decorations, these are pretty elaborate. Part of you wonders if she carries that thing around with her everywhere, but you keep it to yourself. 

The part on the wall this has been mounted to looks like an anchor. From either side, out from underneath where the large, swooping horns joined beneath the eyes, two ends of a large metal pole are mounted to the wall. Hidden in the shadow of gangly teeth, a large metal ring from a downward rod at the end of this mount-point/anchor is just barely there, with the end of a long chain wrapped and hooked around the base of the pole.

This gives you an idea.

When you reach the foot of the narrow ramp that leads to the door, Sabine, already a few steps ahead of you on the hollow floor of it, takes a step back to turn on you, facing you down. Through the glare of her helmet’s glossy black middle, she stares you down.

“You tell anyone about this…” Her voice was breathy enough that the filter on the front of her helmet sounded like a breeze was rolling through. Maybe it was the warble of the amplification, but she sounded like her voice was shaking. “…and I’ll make sure you find an emergency exit without an escape pod. Deal?”

Deal.

Turning her back to you, Sabine face the doorway again—or, more specifically, a control panel in the wall, a narrow interface she slides the rusted metal door up from to reveal buttons and switches.

Any kind of plate or panel is missing from the interior. In the netting of wires and cobwebs, beset by the glow of the transistors that power the mechanism, buttons hang suspended in the balance, faintly glowing and flickering, looking less like useful interfaces and more like old nuisances—more leftovers from the previous owners—or, what’s even more likely, dangling hazards in the way of getting to the real connector that the current owners have installed for this exact operation. Sabine has to reach her hand in, carefully, for a switchboard that has been installed near the back and, somehow, has fallen further back.

At first, Sabine puts a hand—her free hand, the one not currently buried half up to her forearm in the console opening—on the metal box of the control panel, steadying her arm and making sure the door stays open, but when the door is staying upright and she needs more leverage from her body she releases, pivoting her body around and digging her arm in deeper, she waves her free hand out as a counterbalance, out in front of you.

Still thinking the plan over, you wonder… is the door still technically secured?

“Yeah— _hrrgh, comeonnow_ —y-yeah, that’s what I’m trying to undo, as a matter of fact.”

Her helmet is hindering her. At first, when she brings herself down to peer in around her arm and the gap she’s made for her arm from the old, flickering buttons, she can barely see anything—even as an expert at looking through that visor. It shows, lowering her head at the right angle, over and over to try and peer through to see what she can feel and hear her fingers clicking—struggling with the muscle memory required to undo the switch inside.

Even in the dark, dank, dungeon-like atmosphere of the ship, the way her ankles and feet are flexing through the hammered combat boots to get as much leverage as she can—hell, the way her helmet is, a cross between the ancient artifact of a warrior race and a heavily-fortified, wired-up, scrapped together piece of advanced combat technology—can’t keep you as immersed in the reality of the situation as seeing Sabine’s mostly-naked, agile body, dressed like a spring-breaker ready for some holiday planet. It’s incredibly distracting, possibly for all the wrong reasons, hard to let a single visual second of this moment pass—and somehow, you know, the ridiculousness of this situation can’t be lost on her either.

There’s no way the two of you are sneaking two steps out of these quarters, no chance in hell.

Up until now, this has been Sabine's game under Sabine's rules. Something she cooked up, a plan from the start that she's had and been carrying out like any other mission she might've assigned herself to. That's what exactly what this has been: a mission—and that's exactly what it's not. Maybe it hasn't dawned on her how ridiculous this is, maybe she is ready to walk through ship corridors and expect not to get caught. What happens then, does she shoot her way out? Surely by now, half-naked, clinging to some shred of dignity with a helmet, she would have realized the etiquettes of bedroom play were in-effect, even if she didn't want to admit it. Maybe pride, maybe embarrassment...

It’s time for you to take control.

You open up your bag, reaching inside. Something metal and heavy pulls at the bottom of the bag, gleaming at you through the opening.

_Sppkkt—!_

Right as you go to pick it up, your head whips up and looks to Sabine—the source of the sound. 

Something bright and electric sparks, flashing out of the open console. Sabine’s arm jolts and yanks back. You hear the nest of wires and cobwebs tearing, but it only tears so much before Sabine’s arm stops coming out of the wall opening.

“Gaaah—!!”

It’s a reaction out of panic, not out of pain. You would have smelled electric-cooked flesh immediately. Even without being able to see her face, her body language is panicked, but still resolved at her task. You immediately hear her trying the switches again, lowering her center of gravity down again to get her arm further inside.

Her free hand still dangles out in front of you.

You see her hand, but still look down to where you've got your bag open—or, more accurately, where you had your bag open just a moment ago. In the rush of movement in front of you, you didn't hear it drop, which you would have heard if you had left the heavy device inside. It's in your hand: the handcuffs you brought. 

She's distracted, her arm hanging out just as a counterbalance—clearly wavering in the air, not knowing what she might bump it up against. If she sees it this whole side plan you had won't work. It's now or never. 

You grab her forearm, down near the elbow and grip tight, and—

"Hey, what the hell are you—"

—lifting the heavy-metal apparatus in your hand, apply it to her wrist, pressing the cuff opening onto it. The cuff is automatic, it does the rest as soon as it gets close, clamping down and chomping at her wrist like it's a mouth, like Sabine's skin is magnetized. The teeth of restraining cuffs close around her and get a grip, immediately keeping her from pulling her arm away. 

_C-Click!_

Her head whips around to look at what you’ve applied to her wrist. You’re holding onto the middle of a set of Imperial insignia-branded magnacuffs—stiff, mechanical, white-paneled binders, fancy space handcuffs with a bad-guy skin to them.

A little red diode flares up as, pulsing, the soft-metal interiors joined against Sabine’s skin engage their locking mechanism and attain a seal. As soon as she lifts a hand and tries to yank up, the body of the stiff middle the magnacuffs have barely lets Sabine flex her wrists up, and you don’t even have to lift a muscle. Something mechanical in the linkages, the motorized metal arms that link the body to the cuffs and Sabine’s wrists, intervenes and keeps it so you have a fluid grip on Sabine’s wrists; no matter how hard she pulls, you can keep a steady grip on her.

Even with just one wrist in, she’s immediately that much more helpless—and she knows. Her body language changes dramatically, becoming less fluid and agile, more stiff and timid. She lifts her head at you, staring you down. 

"This wasn't... part of the deal..."

You can tell though, somehow, she’s keeping an eye on the Imperial insignia just beneath your fingers, somehow showing through the mask intense looks of distrust. You can only imagine, now, she's contemplating how you got it, and whether or not this means you’re an Imperial spy—and, regardless of whether or not that’s true, whether the facts she knows now makes you that much more dangerous to her and this wild adventure she’s signed up for.

"You better not… I-I’m not—I will not be… p-paraded down the hallways of this ship like your p-prisoner!” Sabine spits, hissing at you, pulling her arm on the cuff and pulling herself closer to you. You can hear her stewing beneath the helmet guards. She turns on you as much as she can while having her arm stuck inside the wall. “I-I did not give you my permission to play these games with me! You will get these off me immediately!”

Personally, that sounds pretty sexy to you—you're not even sure why she was thinking about in the first place. What the hell is she going to do now, anyway?

“G-Graaah!!”

Sabine yanks her arm out of the console door opening, tearing through another nest of wires—whether or not she took the locking mechanism with her, the little switchboard she had been holding so delicately seconds earlier, her only chance of getting out of here without having to call down and wake one of the members of the Rebel crew at this hour to get her out of her own quarters, you have no idea. She throws her hand at you, just trying to get a grip on you or your shoulder, trying to get it out of reach of the other, open cuff you have.

It doesn’t work. Before she can clear the invisible perimeter of the cuff’s range, you kick the switch beneath your thumb on, activating a second red diode—and then a third.

The mouth of the handcuff flies open, and the linkature arm throws itself up, smashing the open inside of the cuff against her wrist.

“Ahhh! S-Shoot!” Sabine scowls. Her naked hands seize out of the ends of the cuffs. The weight that should have dropped on them from the heavy metal doesn’t. Her only expectation was that they would be dropping, but they weren’t. It was startling her, keeping her from having a coherent, steady reaction like she normally had.

You let go, stepping out of the way quickly as the magnacuffs do their work.

_Vvvvv **VVMMMMMMM——!!**_

An enormous hum radiates from the center of the magnacuffs—starting first at the cuffs and then warbling through the steel in the walls around you. The chain beneath the teeth of the Mandalorian skull jangles as forces warp through the room.

"What is..."

Sabine is left wielding the cuffs between her arms out in front, practically floating. When she pulls them back in towards her, it’s only slight, they really are floating—in fact, they’re slowly lifting.

Suddenly her arms fly up over her head. She’s forced to stagger backwards, muscles straining in her arms to keep her upright as she’s almost lifted off the floor, up the ramp several steps, until finally—

"Aaaah—!!"

_CLANG!!_

The middle of the magnacuffs magnetize to the door, affixed tightly to a spot near the top. Sabine’s back collides with the wall but she doesn’t lift off of it. She stuck against it now.

Her arms are rod-straight around the sides of her helmet, forced to hang at the ends of her wrists and where her hands hang over the top. The heels of Sabine’s boots are barely on the lower lip of the door, pressing and straining to keep herself stable and from just dangling against the wall—almost seemingly to keep her ribs from popping apart. Her belly is so stretched is can barely twist around, it’s practically left to just quiver and squirm like one thick nerve, hung up like a slab of meat in the freezer.

“Nnggh!!”

Sabine tries to drop her weight down on the cuffs and their mount point, lowering her hips, trying to kick a leg forward and thrust the magnet off. It’s no use, the magnacuffs are practically fused to the door now.

Already, before the two of you had even expected, the game has started. She looks down at you, tense, realizing she’s already in the position.

You begin to plant a foot on the ramp to press on ahead up to her before the hollow rattle grabs your attention. Beneath the toe of your footwear, the silvery plates of the ramp gleam back at you—showing the clear, reflective metal tracks of where castors had worn into the surface over hundreds of uses, which as your eyes follow leads you to a wide slot beneath the door and beneath where the heels of Sabine’s boots are struggling to press up against the bottom part of the doorway. Easing your weight on and off where the ramp meets the floor makes the edge grind and jump, showing how detached it is.

It gives you an awful idea. Stepping back, you wedge your toe around the corner of the ramp, lifting it from the floor, easing it up so that—

_clickclickclickclickclick_

—the ramp slides in, disappearing steadily into the wide slot, taking more of the ground away from Sabine.

“Grrrh… Hnnn!!”

Gruffing through her reaction, already holding back, Sabine stammers through her helmet. The toes of her boot, reaching down and flexing the soles from where the heels are wedged against the lip of the door so that she might get a little bit of the ramp floor to stand on and prop herself against the wall with, were still trying even as she saw the ramp walking back towards her. Maybe she was trying to stop it, maybe without saying anything—maybe without starting to beg at this stage—or maybe she had completely forgotten, as she soon realized and felt any grip her boots had gotten starting to roll her forward, throwing her chest further off the wall than she was comfortable with. As soon as she felt the protective guard of her swimsuit bottoms leave where her ass was touching the wall, and even her shoulder blades above the natural gap for her back, she felt herself dropping, and, panicking, wheeled her wobbling legs and herself back against the door—and pressed herself, as the naked skin stuck to the skin-warm surface, just as tight as the magnacuffs above her.

As you grab the corners, walking them in just a little and feeding the ramp back into the wall, you feel something like a bungee cable catch pull on the end of the ramp, suddenly feeling floaty and like it has more pull than the natural drop of the ship’s gravity generators. You relinquish your grip, letting the now-floating ramp bounce and sway at the end as, steadily, gaining momentum, clicking like crazy, the ramp suddenly whips back into the wall and slams with a muffled thud at the far end of the wall.

_CliclicliclicliCLACK-K-K-K!!_

The naked backs of Sabine’s calves hurriedly press themselves against the cool steel of the door. The material of her boots start to stick—hopefully—as the toes of her boots point as high as possible without losing any of the fine millimeters of space her heels have on the door ledge.

There’s something beautiful about Sabine being framed in the doorway. It’s a ship door, it’s not that much bigger than she is—and, as you’ve judged from the rest of the alien females you had met here and on the crew, she’s one of the tallest, but that isn't saying a lot. Forcing herself to stand tall forces all the strength in her core, the large and soft muscles in her belly—arguably, as this swimsuit demonstrates, her best features—to work in a way that shows them and exposes them. The large, sweeping cheeks of muscle that reach over her side and around the extra soft middle with her narrow, yawning, quivering belly button, are in full force, practically working overtime to flex out and reveal what little paunch her hardworking body has inlaid in the middle. It’s almost as sexy to watch the middles of her underarms strain and twitch, channeling as much strength into her arms as she can to keep herself from toppling forward onto the floor.

You almost wish, privately, you had succeeded in making her wear heels—maybe if you had this whole outcome in mind in the first place, had told her that having a tiny peg of a heel gave her slightly more leverage when trapped above a magnetized door, you might’ve succeeded in convincing her, but that still would have ruined the surprise. You’re pretty sure most of the reasons were her, bizarrely, covering for the fact that she doesn’t own a single piece of footwear that isn’t also built for the purpose of all-terrain travel and breaking skulls.

“Grrhh… alright punk… l-let’s just get this over with. You’ve only got so long before either my arms or legs totally give out and then—urggh—then this perv show is over, got it?”

Speaking of begging…

At least it sounds like she doesn't want to kill you. She's along for the ride, at least so far. 

Your bag still rests on the floor, back where you had been standing when the ramp had still been extended and when Sabine had been getting the lock undone—where you had dropped it. It’s still lumpy, even with empty cloth collapsed on top it can’t completely disguise the few things you’ve brought with you—things for this part of the night, and more.

But that’s for later. That was a few steps behind you, as you can see from where you left it. You had let the ramp drop halfway between reaching Sabine and where you had been at the foot of the ramp.

Looking towards it is enough to point out to Sabine that you’re not done with it, and you can keep it in the back of your mind’s eye for later. That’s for when the begging has really started. For now— _now_ —is about exploring, beginning the slow process of getting there, eventually to the begging and bargaining of the night.

It begs the question, something you ask: does she know who’s in charge?

Hearing that makes Sabine seethe.

“Me. I’m still in charge,” says Sabine. “Don’t get confused, we’re just playing a game here. Unless you’d like to get your body pumped full of laser holes, I wouldn’t.”

You make your way forward, carefully, savoring every step to close the gap between you and Sabine. You had been a spot where, as you approach and the focus shifts, the transformation of being able to see Sabine in all her glory—mounted on the wall, half looking like a sacrifice on an altar beneath the guard of her Mandalorian skull, the sway of dim lights around you making her figure looked bronzed—to focusing just on what you came for, her midsection, is something to behold.

Your hands poise just outside her sides, above her hips, around her stomach—and just disappearing beneath the view of her helmet’s visor. Sabine has to tip her head down to see what you’re doing, but even then the limitations are apparent. She can't see everything, she isn't able to know where your hands are coming from—to even be able to anticipate it, know what’s coming for her rather than blindly waiting for it. 

She remains silent, but her belly does the work for you of showing itself, shrinking in, and, rippling with nervousness, sprouting goosebumps—how she really feels. The flickering of the amber lights make every motion seem otherworldly, especially at this close, as the regions outside the shadow silhouettes of your hand over her skin start to seem radioactive, honey-colored and glowing with temptation.

She smells like vanilla, and… whiskey? Motor oil? It’s pungent in a way like feet smell like cheese, not normal either, sweat practically sneezing out of every pore, coming up dry and anxious.

So much power over her. As you splay your hands out, stretching and doing finger exercises through the air, all of this begs the question:

Does she still feel in charge?

Sabine’s vocal amplifier hisses as she sucks in a breath—maybe out of nervousness, maybe from making room in her chest to suck in as much of her belly as she can, you can’t tell the difference quite yet. Probably though, out of disgust from your last comment.

You do notice, though, she hasn’t spoken in awhile. Is her confidence dropping or something?

“S-Stop with the taunting already… J-Just get it over with!!”

Your hands move in over her skin, but don’t touch. Not yet. You stop yourself short, just as the ground of her stomach moves away from you and shrivels in. The door behind Sabine’s back thuds as the middle of her back, normally outstretched from where her ass and shoulders touch, drops back and presses her spine. The fine, feather-shaped, apex-predator line appears like dimples above and beneath her belly button, outstretching the smile-shaped grin of the middle.

Get what over with?

Sabine says something under her breath, garbled by the amplification process—you’re not completely sure what, but it sounds like cursing, probably in a language you don't understand. Her head hangs for only a second, taking a moment to compose herself, before lifting herself into her ribcage and presenting her belly once again to you.

“… Being tickled.”

What was—

“Yes!! Yeah… yes, I mean—“ She rushes, clearly over this part too. She rushes a sigh too, nervous energy wriggling its way up to her shoulders in a strange, chesty display she tries to move down into her belly. “G-Go ahead and tickle me—my belly. Go, get it over with.”

Your pleasure.

Her musky, vanilla-and-motor-oil—habanero, as you think about it—scented belly is presented to you again, lounging over itself with the gorgeous curve of its form like a soft, dough-textured slab of meat.

You’ve chosen your spot—long in advance. It had been in your sights almost this entire moment, you had just been hiding it well—as, at the moment, you did not have any of the advantages of hiding your eyes like Sabine did with her helmet. The middle of her hourglass, above where the swimsuit bottoms were stretched over the wide lower part that was her hips and thighs and beneath the raised form of her narrow, thick, stacked ribs and her breasts. The perfect handhold for your fingers to land.

And land your fingers do. You let the tips of your fingers touch her soft skin at long last, grabbing hunks of flesh almost just to roll them between your fingers—applying enough pressure though, for the task at hand.

“Aehh—!”

A quiver runs through the middle of her stomach. You feel it when it reverberates and reaches the edges, pressing against your fingers. It can’t travel anywhere, the grip of your fingers is too deep in to her skin, it only exercises the ticklish feeling more, doing your work for you. You've only just got a handhold, and it only becomes torment you inflict as you claw your fingers in, chasing that quiver back down to its source through all the finely-packed muscle fibers her sides have.

You tease up the curve a little more, grabbing a few more times, trying different spots along the way. Her belly is waiting for you, it’s all your vision is filled with as you look up to her chest’s center and peer past the shadows your hands make, but you want to explore more up here and take good mental notes of Sabine’s body—making some muscle memory of your own. The circumference of where your fingers press in and try to find new spots, adjusting your grip and how far your fingers reach around her for, only changes and is determined by the loosest parts it finds, the parts of slack where your fingertips—pressed together or on their own, can truly find some place to burrow their way in.

Touching near her ribs, the underside of the rows of bones that just barely show through, instantly makes her jolt. The skin is soft and loose here, easy to play your fingers through, easy to go quick and make the rest wriggle.

“Mhhh—!! Nnh-ghhh—!!”

_Thump!_

The domed crown of Sabine’s helmet hits against the door, burying back through her biceps and beneath her open-faced elbows—an attempt, as you realize, to cover and shut out her eyes. It doesn’t work; her skin bumps and bounces off the glossy visor, trying over and over to find some spot to completely block out what she’s seeing—or any sensation at all for, that matter.

You think maybe, with the fold in her arms—the way, as her curled fists worm their ways as comfortably down against the ring opening of the magnacuffs as they can, her elbows pointing out at right angles and making her helmet press as far back to the door as her shoulders and her neck wants to—she’s trying to keep her strength together so she doesn’t completely come off the door and break some bone or hurt herself.

You’ll have to come with a solution to this.

You can see the frustration in her movements. The little waver you hear in her amplified breath in a waver of laughter, ticklish weakness collecting in her chest, pooling in her lungs and, threatening to, as much as she kept fighting it and forcing it down to the bottom, to overflow.

When your eyes return to her ribs you think you realize the problem: digging your fingers in just beneath the little ridge of bone you can feel your way around, and feel her jolts traveling through her core. You can practically feel how much she hates that spot, how much it wears her down as your worm down and tangle your fingers around at the knuckle—not even wriggling that much, just letting the little amounts of give in her flesh, the unknown ends of edges of packed muscle fiber layers you’re feeling around for, as far into her core as you can reach without hurting her or threatening the tension in her skin to do so, and keep skipping over on accident when you do find them, turn into natural drops—determine how fast or slow you go,

Time to get to the main course.

Touching her skin, letting your fingers land down on the swath of Sabine’s belly, just feels fresh and new, like putting your hand on the cool side of a linen. The warmth that the light gives it and tones like it had been sitting out beneath a heat lamp all day are an absolute illusion. As you paw your way through her belly, letting your hands wander down, letting palms lead and your fingers follow, cupping it with medical precision, you keep feeling your way across and finding what you’re looking for with every touch—little ticklish jolts, vulnerabilities.

Your hands have warmed up to her skin. Every touch, even as you feel the freshness of a place you haven’t felt before, doesn’t spurn the same reaction of pure, cold terror your hands did when they were alien. Her skin is used to you now, she’s only mildly uncomfortable with your roaming, not buckling and straining for self-control every time you find a new spot.

You can’t help but let your eyes feast on what you’re seeing. It’s distracting you from the tickling in only the littlest way... but it requires more self-control than you first think.

Your fingers dig in, wriggling through the skin. Expertly, you prod in with all of your outstretched fingers, pressing your way in, all around the bright swollen center of stomach around her belly button.

“Mmnhnhnh—!!”

She sounds surprised, but she only sounds like that in the tone of her voice. Maybe she wasn’t expecting this, but you can hardly believe it; you could feel her eyes on you the entire time. She certainly didn’t fall asleep.

Is she still holding back?

“No-hooh~... HHHHHHH—” Sabine’s voice lilts, the speaker in her helmet blown-out for a split-second with a gasp as one of your fingers crawls up and drives a sharp reaction out of the dimple/dip that keeps appearing above the smile/slit of her belly button. You’ve found a tender button, pressed it, with your finger still dancing over the surface of the skin, ready to toggle it again—keeping that finger within reach as Sabine can see.

That was fun. 

"—kkkkkk-HHHuhhh~... Guhhh~..."

The way her voice releases again through the amplification is the same mix of playful confidence and real terror—again, just a gasp, but it's all she can muster. It’s a gasp of relief from the fear of your touches, or at least the anticipation of it, as you touch again, lightly, lovingly gliding your fingers over the spot over and over, just feeling out the whole territory. You can hear it shaking out of her again, bouncing with the jitters in the backs of her legs—almost like she’s trying to drown out the sound, the incredibly-light sensation of your light touches, as you hear her wrestling through the interior of her helmet, wrestling it against the back and where it’s pressed to the door.

Your other hand tries a spot around the belly button, digging and feeling around for a similar spot, finding nothing but tough muscle and ticklish tendons—spots that only appear to be mildly ticklish, as she starts to steady her movements, starting to return some control over them. Her head and helmet wheel down through her arms, hanging lower than she can see you, more into resignation. You hear some crackling through the speakers that, as you realize, really isn’t crackling: it’s her breathing sputtering and, steadily, gently, losing control.

Is she sure she isn’t still holding back? You keep trying the spots around her belly button, clawing around, pinching out little bends of flab with each handful you get at the ends of your fingers, sliding your fingers into any ticklish spots you think you might’ve dug out.

“Nggh-nggh~…”

You can hear her smile, you can hear how tortured it is. She’s really struggling. If you didn’t know better, this was bringing her to the point of tears.

Your fingers dash up, suddenly digging into the spot again. As soon as her belly shrinks in, disappearing towards the back and towards her spine, you realize—and she realizes, too, with loud scowl of terror—

“Oh noh— ** _haaah~!!_** ”

—she’s hosed. She’s willingly, out of her own instincts, shrank her belly in, and the weld of her muscles at the middle apex of her belly exposes the long dip of skin leading out of her belly button middle, the dimple your fingers have been searching for. Absolutely screwed.

You wouldn’t know it out of how proud she sounds, out of how happy and elated she sounds—how desperate. That’s just the ticklishness talking. You can hear an undercurrent of horror in her voice with every gasp, every shiver and rattle of the heels of her boots hitting the door.

You dig your fingers in and wriggle, testing the elasticity of the spot, wanting all you can of it, wanting to milk every last laugh from that spot.

“ _Naaahahahaa~!!_ ” Sabine howls, thudding her helmet and her whole back against the door. With every wail and ticklish cry, you hear the horror, a desperate gasp of ‘how bad is this going to be’. You can only imagine how her face is twisting up beneath that helmet, the quivering and rattling of her sheer voice through where her head is twisting around inside doesn’t do it justice like your imagination and the sound of her voice does.

Your hand, still lingering on that dud of a spot you had found around her belly, sharply changes tact. You go around the side for her hip, the spot where the fine cord of her swimsuit bottom can’t hide, and go nuts on her hip bone.

“Raaahh~!!!” She shouts in surprise. Definitely wasn’t expecting that, as focused as she was trying to keep her composure through all of this.

Your hand has to fight the jolts she has, trying to throw her hips around and genuinely, for the first time this whole session, throw you off.

“Aaaahkkkktt—!! Nono—ahaha!! Ahaha—ahhnoono nooohhhohohooo!! Ahh—aahhh nohohahahaha!!!”

The sound of Sabine’s voice keeps getting distorted—probably just by the sheer force of how much she’s projecting into the microphone at the front of her helmet, into the mouthpiece with every howl she can muster out of her burning, tortured lungs. She’s snickering, you can tell as much by the way she twists the front of her helmet around—hell, you can _feel_ it coming out of her lungs, beneath the skin every stutter of air her nervous muscles can muster around her exuding, tortured lungs.

"Aaaahahahahahahaa—Ahaha— _Ahhh!!_ G-Ghghghahaahaahaaa~!!"

She tries new tact—as much and as only she can—twisting herself against the door of where she’s strapped down. All the energy she’s saved in her arms, welled up in her tense, flexing shoulders, is going to her arms as fast and as long as she can to endure this, wrestling back against the magnacuffs to keep her on the wall and on the door as much as she can. 

It's too late though. You can hear it in her voice, she's falling apart. 

For one, clarifying second, you let up on her hip bones, freeing up your hand, and then let up entirely. She doesn’t stop laughing, the way her brain and any phantom sensation of touch tortures her, as she wrestles around from what must now be the blinders of her helmet visor, fogged up and overwhelmed with own spittle and rising outpourings, gasps, cries of breath, where she can’t see your hands going any where they want. The faintest bristle of a breeze in the air, a gust from the ship's life support system, touching across her skin, she thinks, as she jumps and tries to shimmy away any part of her body. God, this is unrivaled research, just letting up and letting this happening, watching as she twitches away to pull anything away and reveals half her spots alone—hips, thighs, underarms, breasts, even jolting her boots closer to her body in case you try to take them away. You realize half the time she’s lowering her head and the guard of her helmet is to keep away from her neck, which you can only silently fantasize about how ticklish it is from how desperately, laughing anxiously, she tries to protect it.

"Uh-huh-huhhuh-huhh~..."

The last few laughs come bubbling out of her like a bottle draining upside-down. She gets enough control over her voice for a second where she can speak. She's _sniffling_.

Making sure she's watching you, making sure your eyes don't go down and that, through the black ovals of her visor, she keeps her eyes on yours, your hand rests back on the spot. A slight nod in her head is her resisting the urge to look down.

She can feel it though, all of the extra fingers you're putting on it. You can feel the shudder in her chest, as it comes out through the filter, the overworked quiver of skin beneath your fingertips.

"P-Please... _please_... w-wait a second..."

Your hand, all three fingers, with only a pinky and thumb to keep the honey pot of a spot above her belly button centered in the middle of her fingers, hover tenuously. Any pressure in, even letting up, will set off the bomb waiting to blow in Sabine's lungs, primed and wound-up in the back of her brain. The muscles in her stomach, straining and flexing to keep the stretched canvas of the dimple spot you've found free of the constant pounding of her heart can only do so much. If you were feeling a bead of sweat on the top of your finger you wouldn't know, the feeling of hot and cold had fused in your skin.

And you stay stopped. Something about listening to her nervous breaths—listening to your own excited breaths on top of it—you almost believe _this_ , a moment like this, is the best part of it.

You can't see her eyes, but you know you're in a stare down. You've got her, dead to rights.

Or... you think. Is she bluffing? You have to know.

Was Sabine ready to give up and surrender?

"Heh... never~... You'll have to do a whole lot better than that if you want to get me..."

Cocky Sabine was still in there, ready to intimidate you, even when you had your finger on her trigger. You could still hear her breathlessness, even hearing it rise out a little more when she summoned the air in her lungs and the strength to speak, and yet, you could hear the same strength as she had before. You could almost believe her.

Almost. 


End file.
